My footsteps are measured as I expand my senses and listen for the quiet pockets within the village, searching for the calm in the chaos. It’s easy for me to ignore the frantic footfalls of running lowborn, the acrid scent of iron, the crackling wood touched by Ember fire.
Where I step, the water turns to ice, my cold heart acting of its own accord, defying the waves that try to drag the water back out to sea, keeping them frozen on the sand, leaving peaks of snow behind me.
Halfway along the beach, a wail breaks through my calculated reverie. A child’s cry.
It isn’t the peace I was seeking, and yet it draws my focus like a snapping twig in a silentforest.
My focus shoots to a small girl huddled in the sand beneath the shade of a tall tree up ahead. She can’t be more than four years old. Fiery embers and burning leaves fall around her as softly as snowflakes, a dangerous rain.
A woman lies beside her on the sand, her face turned away from me, but it’s clear from the stillness of the woman’s body that her spirit no longer inhabits this world.
I’m not certain why this particular child’s cry broke my concentration, but I don’t ignore it. My instincts must have responded to her for a reason, and I won’t dismiss them.
Emotion may be meaningless to me, but instinct is not.
I hurry toward the child, my wolf padding along behind me, her growls warning me of the fiery danger in the sky.
I’m unperturbed, casting a thin film of ice upward, dousing the falling embers before I scoop the wailing girl into my arms.
She falls silent, her little voice choking and her faded eyes tear-filled as she stares up at me.
I read the pure horror in her expression, so intense she can’t even scream.
I’m accustomed to this reaction.
My mother was Lethian, the last of the ancient ones, gentle and kind, even though she looked like an otherworldly spirit come to steal souls.
I inherited her pointed ears, her eyes, which were so pale gray they appeared white, and her angular cheekbones. Years ago, I tried to find a way to add color to my eyes, but it was a foolish endeavor.
I also inherited her keen hearing. Her ability to isolate a whisper within screams and identify creeping footfalls on a quiet night. A useful skill against the assassins who keep coming even now.
“Child,” I whisper to the little girl. “What is your name?”
She shudders at the sound of my voice, her entire body shivering, her only response a frightened whimper.
My forehead creases, a furrow that deepens as I contemplate what to do with her, since I’m now burdened with the problem of her well-being.
It’s clear her mother’s spirit has passed on. I could put the child on my wolf and command her to take the child to one of the many orphanages in my kingdom, but that would be a false kindness. Her people are here. It would be cruel to take her away from them, and cruelty in this situation has no logical purpose.
“Where is your family?” I ask, not expecting an answer.
To my surprise, she raises her arm shakily as she points out toward the ocean.
I half-turn in that direction, following the line of her little arm to a single figure, a lowborn man, stumbling from between the burning trees toward the edge of the water.
There’s no obvious reason for him to do this. Every other villager seems to be trying to stay away from open ground so as not to expose themselves to the battle in the air.
The man drops to his knees and leans forward, planting his hands in the sand where the water ebbs and flows, seeming completely unaware of my approach as I cross the distance towards him.
His desperate pleas repeat over and over, his voice clear within my heightened hearing, but there’s a lilt to his voice, an intonation, anaccentI haven’t heard before. It may be particular to this coastal town, but I can’t be sure without interacting with more of these villagers.
“Goddess, forgive me,” he cries. “Cleanse these hands of blood. Strip this heart of wickedness. Goddess, give me peace. Cleanse thesehands of?—”
“Who did you kill?” I quickly assess his bloody hands and appeals for forgiveness, drawing conclusions from them.
His victim can’t be one of the highborn attacking this village. No mere lowborn could hope to challenge us. Yet it’s clear some sort of altercation has occurred. The water runs red where it laps at his hands, carrying the crimson gleam of fresh blood.
At my question, the man jolts and recoils so sharply that he throws himself back from me.
